Sunday evenings in my home are not pretty. First I thought my nine-year-old Suzy was acting out because at 8:30 sharp I had snapped off her TV show—always an unbelievably traumatic event. But no, the wailing continued over the fact that, of course, she hates all her pants. I had inadvertently dissed some of her stuffed animals by facing them in the wrong directions and she missed her dad.

Speaking to him on the phone, she railed on and on about her miseries, in an escalating pitch, until finally, in real alarm, he asked: “Did something happen today?” And out it came, her youthful cri de coeur: “I HATE MONDAYS!”

This I could relate to. Even though I, too, hate all of my pants. And my stuffed animals never all face the right direction. But Mondays, Mondays, Mondays are when all the crows come to roost.
And this is not just according to the Mamas and the Papas, who wearily sang “Monday, Monday.” Or Karen Carpenter, who sang, “Rainy days and Mondays always get me down,”

Googling onward, have you heard of a group called Sky Travel, which declared BLUE MONDAY to be the most depressing day of the year? Blue Monday allegedly falls on the Monday of the last full week of January. According to a “mental health charity,” it is calculated on a quasi-algebraic formula that uses as variables weather conditions, debt level, time since Christmas, and, inevitably, time since failing to keep one’s new year’s resolutions. Oh my God. Even the math looks depressing.

Of course, given that we are a household that likes to get depressed early, we’re not going to wait until January. No no, our Blue Monday could be like, hey, today, December 12! Our semi-quadratic equation could involve stress anticipating the holidays. Adding in the constant that now, it gets dark at like three, multiplied by the growing conviction that, in the end, Santa will always disappoint.

Nine-year-old Suzy, she of the much-hated pants, and poorly positioned stuffed animals, has, perhaps in preparation, set the bar quite low for Santa this year. “I just want a booklet of cookie recipes with Post-Its showing his favorites,” she said, in an optimistic moment, which happened to fall on a Saturday (AKA: the happiest day of the week, when miniature golf and bowling can be involved).

“Write it in a letter and we’ll toss it up the chimney,” I said.
Perhaps on a Tuesday? Next week: Monday problem solved.